


From Little Things

by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dryad Steve Rogers, Fluff, M/M, Magical Realism, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Nudity, Nymphs & Dryads, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers is Not Captain America, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 13:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12059790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/pseuds/leveragehunters
Summary: Season after season passed and Steve didn't see a single human, only the animals and the birds and the plants and the lake, until the day the man with the silver arm appeared, stripped naked, and waded into the lake. For the first time in a long time Steve left his oak-self to crouch hidden in the bushes, watching him.The man was beautiful, Steve had never seen a human who was so much like an oak, he hadn't thought it was possible, and he wanted to run his fingers over the man's skin, see if he felt as strong as he looked, see if his skin was smooth or rough. He wanted to touch his hair, find out if it was soft. He wanted to touch the silver arm, to discover what it was. It looked like metal, but he didn't see how that was possible.In which Steve is something like a dryad, Bucky's not the Winter Soldier anymore but he's not quite sure he's Bucky, and together they discover that some choices are worth making.





	From Little Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alby_mangroves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/gifts), [jsaer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jsaer/gifts).



> This was supposed to be a tiny silly little (like 1-2k) thing to go with this tumblr post: [Steve Rogers: Gentle Woodland Nymph, peeking out at the human he's secretly enthralled by...](https://leveragehunters.tumblr.com/post/165250645753/artgroves-shanology-artgroves) (Art by [Artgroves](http://artgroves.tumblr.com/), and really, go look at it before you read this [I fixed the link, TY!]) and it all went wrong somewhere. I don't know. It was suddenly one am and I had this instead. 
> 
> For alby_mangroves, who I _totally_ blame for me still being awake at one am, and for afearsomecritter, ~~whose AO3 handle I realise I don't know, but~~ , who I thought could use the distraction. 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I don't actually know what social system vegetation prefers; for all I know plants could be hard-core monarchists. 
> 
> 13.09.17: Minor edits. Thank you sageandstarlight for telling me how trees grow--from the top (I honestly had no idea), which inclines me to believe they very well _could_ be hard-core monarchists--I've tweaked that scene to account for that fact! I also changed a sentence that equated genitals to gender.

Not every acorn becomes an oak. Oaks are strong, powerful, mighty, but acorns are tiny and vulnerable, surviving at the whims of weather and nature.

Not every acorn becomes an oak, but the ones that do, the ones that grow into saplings...some of them might grow into _more_. They might form a glowing core, potential waiting to be realised, waiting to see if the sapling will burgeon into all the promise its bark contains.

And if it does, when it does, that glowing core becomes a _heart_ , the heart of a new life, of a...being. A creature. _Dryad_ , some would call it. Others would say _woodland nymph_ or possibly _sprite_ , but the latter only someone who'd never actually seen an oak's. Because _sprite_ is a word for something slight and dainty, something that flits, and an oak's spirit is _strength_. Where an oak walks, so say the legends, the earth shakes like roots splitting rock.

Steve didn't know about that, but then he'd never heard that particular legend. When he thought of himself he simply thought of _oak_ , or he did until the day the errant human child carved the name into his bark. _Steve_ , dug in with a dull knife _._ It amused him to take the name for himself. After all, he was owed for the hurt, small as it was, and the name seemed a fair trade. The child would never know.

Time passed, the seasons shifted, blurring into each other as he grew, roots spreading tangled through the earth to reach the lake's edge, leafy branches spreading wide to shadow the ground. He was the only one of his kind here and he couldn't go far from his oak-self. He spent most of his time half-asleep, half-aware, as the seasons passed.

The small human village nearby gathered his branches and his acorns and hunted in the forests around him. Its children played among his roots and swam in the lake and he watched them all with a fond happiness as they grew and had children of their own. The world moved around him. The forests shrank and the human village disappeared and no one came to replace them. Season after season passed and he didn't see a single human, only the animals and the birds and the plants and the lake. 

Until the day the man with the silver arm appeared, stripped naked, and waded into the lake. He was bloody, red swirling into the water, and he dipped under the surface and stayed there until Steve began to worry he might have drowned.

Suddenly he exploded from under the surface, flipping his hair back, water cascading in an arc, and Steve was entranced. The man was beautiful, he looked like an _oak_ , every muscle carved, defined, and his hair was dark. It was an embarrassment to Steve that his flesh-self's hair was yellow like sunlight, his eyes blue like the sky. He'd always thought they weren't really proper colours for an oak—for a birch, maybe, or a sycamore, but not an _oak_. This man might have storm-grey eyes, but his hair was deep brown, bark coloured, tree coloured, beautiful, perfect.

Unable to resist, Steve slipped free of his oak-self into his flesh-self, tall and solid and strong, with blue eyes and yellow hair (and he grimaced at both because they were _embarrassing_ ). It had been a long time since he'd walked free of his oak-self, but he was silent; leaves didn't rustle under the feet of an oak, branches didn't crack.

Steve crept forward and crouched behind a tree, hidden from view by thick bushes, and watched the man. He was even more beautiful this way. Steve could see the line of each muscle, the curve of his back, the strength in him, but he could also see pain.

There were wounds, cuts, gouges, scrapes, leaking blood into the forgiving lake, and he ached at the sight. There were old wounds, scars, around the silver arm and Steve hurt to see them.

Suddenly the man went stiff and still. Steve knew he hadn't made a sound, knew he hadn't given himself away as his eyes travelled over the man, but the man was scanning the shore and his eyes seemed to pinpoint Steve's position.

Time passed, neither Steve nor the man moving. Even the birds fell silent.

Finally the man looked away but he didn't relax. He quickly scrubbed himself, climbed out of the lake, dried, dressed, and left as quickly as he'd arrived. Steve stared after him until he disappeared from sight.

While Steve was distracted—wondering who the man was, where he'd come from, how he'd been hurt, if he'd come back, how he could be so beautiful—a bird flew down and landed on his head. Steve ignored it, lost in endless questions masquerading as thoughts. A sudden sharp pain snapped him out of it and he winced, then glared at the bird that was now flying away, a clump of Steve's hair in its beak. 

"This is why I stay my oak-self," he muttered after it and the bird landed on one of Steve's branches, regarding him smugly.

Steve sighed and stood up from his crouch, dragging his bare toes through the dirt. There was no point worrying about it. The man wasn't going to come back. No one came to the lake, they hadn't for so long that, by Steve's reckoning, at least three generations could have been born in the time since he'd last seen a human.

 

* * *

 

The man came back. Steve was so shocked he accidentally dropped a branch which had the man whipping around, staring at his oak-self.

The man was once again bloody. He was once again hurt. And he was warier than he'd been last time.

It was almost as if he could sense Steve.

Steve left his oak-self once the man was in the water. His shock had swiftly turned into surprised happiness, muted by the ache of seeing him in pain, and he was once more crouching hidden, watching him. The man was so beautiful, Steve had never seen a human who was so much like an oak, he hadn't thought it was possible, and he wanted to run his fingers over the man's skin, see if he felt as strong as he looked, see if his skin was smooth or rough. He wanted to touch his hair, find out if it was soft. He wanted to touch the silver arm, to discover what it was. It looked like metal, but he didn't see how that was possible.

But more than anything Steve wanted to soothe his hurts. He wanted to stop there from being more hurts. He wanted to ask: why are you covered in blood? Why are you hurt? He wanted to say: stay here and I'll stop things from hurting you.

The man kept coming back and Steve slowly crept closer. The trees and bushes, which were ordinary trees and bushes (or as ordinary as a tree or a bush could ever be since, as far as Steve was concerned, even the least of them was extraordinary) helped him. They knew what he wanted, what he needed. They closed around him, they kept him hidden. He was _oak_ , and while vegetation was non-hierarchical it was to Steve they would have bowed their branches if they were so inclined. (Gladly, joyfully, because he was oak, but he was also kind; he let anyone grow who arrived, no matter what they were, and he made sure they all had a fighting chance, had been known to replant someone if the competition for sunlight grew too fierce.)

 

* * *

 

Eventually Steve decided he should talk to the man, since he kept coming back and he didn't seem so wary now. Maybe he didn't sense Steve anymore or maybe, whatever he'd sensed, he was used to it.

And Steve _wanted_ to talk to him. _Want_ was an unfamiliar sensation, but he knew he wanted this.

So Steve dressed himself, because he knew humans wore clothes; the man did when he wasn't in the water, just like the humans from the long-ago village. It had nothing to do with vanity. With wanting to make himself look nice for the man.

It _didn't_ , no matter how the birds twitted at him, clearly mocking, as he carefully wove together vines and flowers, leaves and berries. The plants happily gave him what he needed, things that would be easy to wrap around his calves and his wrist and his arm. He tried to weave the arm band to mimic the man's silver arm and wrapped it around his left bicep, to show that he didn't think the man's arm was strange. He ran his fingers through his hair and tied a circle of vines and berries and tiny white flowers around his head.  

How to cover his genitals was more of a puzzle, but he knew that was important to humans. He finally wove a square of soft reeds and ran it between his legs, securing it front and back to a vine wrapped around his waist. It wasn't comfortable and he didn't like it much, but he could cope.

Next time the man came back Steve waited until he'd finished washing himself to approach, but he _didn't_ give him a chance to leave the lake and get dressed. If the man was finished, if he was dressed, he might just leave _._ Steve walked out to stand at the edge of the lake, mouth open to say _hello,_ but before he could speak the man was in motion.

He launched himself onto land, spinning to face Steve with a handful of metal he snatched out of his pile of clothes. Steve found himself looking down a round tube. The way the man was holding it, Steve knew it was a weapon, but it wasn't one he recognised. The man was out of reach, but Steve knew about weapons that could kill from a distance.

Weapons that could kill _humans_ from a distance. It would have to be something special to kill an oak. Still he stayed where he was and smiled hopefully. "Hello."

The man blinked. "What the fuck?"

"I was watching you and I wanted to say hello. Which I did. I didn't think very far past that. That's a weapon, isn't it?"

"It's a gun. I'll kill you with it if you move."

Steve nodded, not agreeing, only to show he'd heard. "I'm not going to hurt you."

The man snorted. "No shit." It should mean the man believed him, but that wasn't the impression Steve was getting. The gun in the man's hand didn't move, but his eyes slowly roamed over Steve's body. "I thought I got out without a scratch, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe I got knocked in the head. Maybe I'm hallucinating. What are you wearing? What are you doing out here? Who are you?"

"Vines, leaves, flowers, and berries. I live here. Steve."

The man blinked at him again. Steve waited patiently. "What?"

"That's what I'm wearing, what I'm doing out here, and who I am."

After a moment the man slowly lowered the gun. "You live out here and you're wearing...yeah, I can see that." He rubbed his forehead. "And I'm not wearing anything," he said, seeming to realise that for the first time.

"You should get dressed."

"And what are you going to do while I'm doing that?" There was something dark in the man's eyes, his fingers tightening on the gun. Steve once more had the urge to soothe his hurts, but there were no injuries he could see, no blood, so he didn't know why he was so sure the man was bleeding.

"Not hurt you," Steve said softly. He glanced around. "I'll go stand over there." He pointed to his oak-self. "If you want, when you're dressed, you could come and talk to me. If you want. But you don't have to."

The man didn't move, his eyes following Steve as Steve began to walk around the lake to his oak-self. He paused and turned back. "Please don't leave forever." The man twitched in surprise and Steve kept walking, folding his legs to sit beneath his oak-self. He pressed his palms against his bark, wondering if the man would join him, wondering if he would leave forever.

After interminable minutes, his leaves rustling in agitation as he waited, he heard the man. Leaves crackled under his feet, a branch cracked—Steve had a feeling the noise was deliberate—then he was standing looking down at Steve. Not too close, not within Steve's reach, but he was there.

He tilted his head back and looked up into Steve's branches, then he put one finger in his mouth, pulled it out, and held it up in the air. Steve's leaves kept rustling, rustled harder as the man's eyes fell back on Steve, piercing, intense. "There's no wind."

"No?" Steve said, puzzled.

"Why are the leaves moving?"

Steve curled his fingers against his bark and stared up at the man. The man with the silver arm, that this close Steve could see _was_ metal, peeking out from under pushed-up sleeves, segmented like a snake's scales. It whirred under his attention. His leaves rustled harder, his branches swayed, and Steve said, "Because I'm oak."

"You're oak." The man's voice was flat, emotionless, like winter's fall, cold with no sign of spring.

"Yes." Steve contemplated standing, but he considered the man and saw a predator, a great mountain cat, dangerous, but he also saw shades of a deer facing down the cat. Wary, a hint of fear. Nothing the man could do could hurt Steve, but he didn't want to do anything that would make the man think he had to try. He liked the man; Steve hadn't shown himself to him to make his hurts worse. "I'm oak, this is me." He patted the bark and the rustling slowed, stopped. Steve smiled at the man's look of incomprehension. "Do you want to see?"

"Sure, show me that you're _oak_."

The man didn't believe him. Steve smiled wider and slowly stood, leaned against his oak-self, and slipped inside. It was warm and gold, he was tall and strong, stretching to the sky, branches reaching out over the lake, roots tangling at the water's edge, drinking his fill. The man was wide-eyed and frozen, so Steve took careful aim and dropped a leafy twig on his head. The man started, then raised his metal hand, lifted the twig out of his wet hair, and stared at it while Steve stepped out of his oak-self, regarding him solemnly. "I'm oak. But I took the name Steve as payment for the hurt caused when a child carved it into my bark. I can show you, if you want."

The man lifted his eyes to meet Steve's and they were still wide, but they were filled with wonder. "You're a tree."

"I'm _oak,_ " Steve corrected, trying not to sound offended, and tilted his head back and forth. "I know some humans call my kind dryads, some call us woodland nymphs, some—"

Steve didn't get any further, because the man started laughing, spluttered, "Nymphs?", and at Steve's nod laughed harder. He ended up having to lean on Steve's trunk for support as he kept laughing and Steve could feel it, feel the man leaning against him. Eventually he slid down the trunk to grin up at Steve. " _Nymph_. Yeah, that's exactly what I think when I see six foot something of solid blond muscle wandering around: must be a nymph _._ Jeez, Steve." He scrubbed his hand over his face and twirled the leafy twig in front of his eyes. "I believe you. No idea why, except you just disappeared into a tree, so either it's true or I'm losing my mind." The man hummed under his breath and tapped his nose with the twig. "And I tried that for a bit, so I know what it feels like. You're oak and you're Steve and this," he patted Steve's trunk, and Steve felt good, warm, at the touch, "is you."

Steve wasn't quite sure why what he'd said was so funny, but the man's eyes were soft, like Steve had never seen, and it made something light up inside him, warmth curling through his flesh-self like the rush of sap in spring, and if that took the man laughing at him, Steve was happy to be laughed at. "It's me, just like this is me." He tapped his chest.

The man leaned back, set the twig on the ground next to him. "Can I ask about the, uh, outfit?"

"I didn't want to be naked and," Steve shuffled his feet, embarrassed, as above him the birds twittered, then sank to sit cross-legged among his roots, admitting, "and I wanted to look nice when I introduced myself to you." He didn't know how to interpret the man's reaction to that, so he held out his left arm to show the band he'd woven. "See, I made it look like your silver arm."

The man didn't touch it, but his metal fingers hovered over the woven band. "Why?"

"So you'd know I didn't think your arm was strange." The man's eyes had darkened, storm clouds and lightning, and now he wasn't sure he'd done a good thing. "Was that bad?"

Fingers still hovering, the man swallowed hard then his eyes cleared, the clouds blown away by a summer's wind, leaving behind a faint, warm light. "No." He gently touched the woven band then hastily pulled his hand back. "No, it wasn't bad."

Steve nodded. He ran his fingers along his roots, feeling his oak-self, his leaves, his bark, the birds in his branches, and asked, "Can I ask for your name?"

"That's complicated."

Steve cocked his head. "You don't have to tell me."

"It's not that I don't want to tell you, it's just," the man sighed, "that it's a complicated question." He ran his hand over Steve's roots and Steve shivered. The man's eyes sharpened. "You can feel that?"

"It's me."

"So yes, then. Sorry."

Steve shook his head and offered the man a quick smile and a shrug.

"Oh." The man considered him then rested his right hand on Steve's trunk and Steve sighed a little at the warmth. "You can call me Bucky."

"Bucky," Steve repeated, rolling the word around in his mouth. "Bucky."

"Yeah. I'm not sure if it's my name, but it was once. It might be again. And..." He patted Steve's trunk, eyes fixed on Steve's face so he couldn't miss Steve's tiny smile in response. "I'm not sure there's a human I'd want calling me that but you, you're somethin—" He stopped, frowned, and said, " _Someone_ different."

"Bucky," Steve said again, warmth curling through him, spring rolling into summer, sunlight on his leaves, winter a distant memory, and he leaned forward. "Can I touch you?"

Tension shivered through Bucky, like wind through Steve's branches and he held perfectly still. Waiting. Eventually Bucky nodded and Steve folded his hand around Bucky's metal fingers. After another moment of stillness, Bucky choked out a laugh. It wasn't funny, there was no humour in it, only a sharp edge that made Steve think he was bleeding again, but he folded his other hand around Bucky's, gently holding on.

Eventually, one muscle at a time, Bucky began to relax as they sat in the shadow of Steve's oak-self.

 

* * *

 

Bucky came back. Bucky kept coming back. Sometimes he came back bloody, but even when he wasn't hurt Steve always thought he was bleeding. 

They would sit together under Steve's oak-self and talk. Gradually he let Steve help him when he came back hurt, let Steve tend his wounds with the supplies he brought with him. Let Steve touch him beyond what was necessary to treat the wounds. Beyond letting Steve hold his hand.

It wasn't easy. It wasn't fast.

But Steve was oak. He was endless patience and endless strength. He was gentle touches, the brush of a leaf in a summer's breeze, and when Bucky turned into his touch his heart beat faster. The heart of his oak-self, the heart of his flesh-self, both racing because Bucky leaned into him, because Bucky reached out.

The day Bucky lowered himself, hair wet and clinging, wearing only the pants he'd pulled on after climbing out of the lake, to sit in front of Steve, willingly putting his back to Steve as he leaned into him, as he caught Steve's hands to pull Steve's arms around him, Steve's oak-self burst into new growth. Bucky was tense, each breath deliberate and slow, like he was waging a war with himself, but Steve propped his legs up on either side of Bucky and held him close, resting his chin on Bucky's shoulder to breathe gently against his neck, and waited. Time passed, the sun shifted, Steve's leaves sang a gentle accompaniment above and Bucky suddenly went limp, collapsing against Steve's chest as the tension drained out of him.

He rolled his head back to look at Steve, relaxed, eyes warm, and the corner of his mouth curved up in a tiny smile. "Hi."  

"Hi Bucky."

Bucky closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. "Thanks." Steve shook his head and pressed a kiss against Bucky's cheekbone, and Bucky smiled again. "What was that for?"

"It felt right. Was it okay?"

"Yeah, Steve. It was good." Without opening his eyes, Bucky laid his hands over Steve's. "I want to tell you about me."

"I'm listening." He knew this was important, could feel it in every part of both his selves, could feel it in the way Bucky twisted sideways and curled into him. He held him closer. "I'll always listen."

"I was, before I came here, I did terrible things. There were people, they—" He rubbed his face and opened his eyes. "I didn't think this would be so hard."

All Steve wanted to do was make this easier for Bucky, it was all he ever wanted to do, and he searched his memory for something that could help. "Tell it as a story," he finally said.

"What?"

"Tell it as a story. Once upon a time." Steve knew about fairy tales. Long ago, before the village had disappeared, the children had sometimes told stories among his roots. "It might be easier."

Bucky was silent and Steve could see him considering it. "Once upon a time." He stopped and Steve waited, patient, quiet, and he started again. "Once upon a time there was a man fighting in a war. It was brutal and bloody and he was captured by people who...cursed him so he wasn't quite human anymore. He eventually got away but it didn't matter, it was too late. The curse took hold, and when he should have died, when the people he was fighting with thought he'd died, he didn't. The ones who'd cursed him found him and wiped his memory, turned him into something else, something bad, and used him to kill people."

Bucky stopped as a shudder went through him; Steve held him tighter, resisting the urge to crush him close.

"For a long time they kept him that way by freezing him and wiping him. Again and again." He caught Steve's hand and squeezed it hard. "Until one day the program broke down. They were fighting an enemy bigger than them, they didn't have time to do everything right, and it broke. I got away. _I got away_." It was vicious and low. Steve squeezed his hand and tightened his hold while the branches of his oak-self swayed and creaked in response to the anger rising inside of him. "Parts of me came back but I don't really know who I am. I get flashes. Bits and pieces of memories. Stuff I can reconstruct. But I know who they are. I know where they are. And I've been taking them out. One by one, front by front. It's why I keep coming back bloody, why sometimes I come back hurt."

"But you keep coming back." He didn't quite make it a question, not wanting to say anything that would hurt Bucky, that would ever hurt Bucky.

"I come here because no one comes here, and it's," he let out a long sigh, "it's clean. It's peaceful. It's," he shook his head, "after the killing it settles something in me." He fell silent and Steve brushed the back of his hand down Bucky's cheek, traced the line of Bucky's chin with his fingertips. Bucky glanced up at him, a half-smile on his face. "I didn't know it had you." His smile widened, sparks of amusement dancing in his eyes, but his voice was warm. "My gentle woodland nymph."

There was nothing _gentle_ about what was swirling inside of him; oaks were slow to anger but implacable in their ferocity once they got there and Steve was _angry._ But for Bucky he had nothing but gentleness. "I'll always be here for you. Always, Bucky." He pressed another kiss to Bucky's cheek and Bucky sighed softly.

 

* * *

 

It changed things between them. There was more touching, Steve wanted to touch him forever, and Bucky...Bucky seemed happy to let him, seemed happy to touch him in return.

Not always. Some days he couldn’t. Some days all he could manage was to sit in the tangled roots of Steve's oak-self and breathe quietly, let Steve sit close by and watch over him, but that was enough for Steve. All Steve needed, he realised, was for Bucky to be safe. That was all he _needed_ , even if he wanted so much more.

He wanted to touch him.

He wanted to hold him.

He wanted to curl around him and never let go.

He wanted to kiss him.

That realisation was startling. Not _kiss him_ like he'd already done, lips against Bucky's cheek or temple, gentle kisses of reassurance—except now that he was having his _realisation_ he was also realising they might have been more than that—but an actual kiss, Steve's mouth against Bucky's, lips against his. Kissing him.

This was complicated. Oaks didn't do this. Yes he had his flesh-self but he'd never, he didn't, he hadn't, this was _new._

Despite that, he knew that he couldn’t just kiss him. Could he ask? Would Bucky want to be kissed by him? Steve didn't realise how much time he was spending staring at Bucky's mouth as he pondered and tried to puzzle it out. He might never have realised it, except one day Bucky caught Steve's hands and pulled him to stand under his oak-self, lifting a bare foot then stopping with it hovering over one of Steve's roots. "Is it rude to stand on you?"

"No?"

"Good to hear." He stood on the root and Steve could feel it, Bucky's bare feet, his curled toes, as Bucky manoeuvred Steve to stand in front of him. With the added height their eyes were exactly even and the corner of Bucky's mouth quirked up. "Steve."

"Yes?"

Bucky cupped Steve's cheeks between his hands. "I'm going to kiss you now. Okay?"

"Yes," Steve said, sighing in relief. "I didn't know how to do that."

"Good to know," he murmured and then his mouth was on Steve's. His lips were soft, gentle pressure, and Steve leaned in, wrapping his arms around Bucky, returning the kiss, following Bucky's lead as his fingers curled, digging into Bucky's back as Bucky tilted his head, as he deepened the kiss and it was warm, it was good, Bucky tasted amazing. Steve chased after him as he leaned back, his oak-self showering them both with leaves, and Bucky laughed softly. Steve grinned against Bucky's mouth and nibbled his bottom lip, then let his head tip to rest against Bucky's. "You taste green," Bucky said, a little breathless.

Steve was beyond speech he was so happy. He was... Actually he discovered he was quite capable of talking, considering he had something important to ask. "We can do that again, right? More?"

"As much as you want." Bucky's hands were still cradling his face and Bucky leaned in close, lips just brushing Steve's. "There's lots of things we can do if you want to do them. All you have to do is ask."

 

* * *

 

Steve couldn't precisely _ask_. That would have required more knowledge about the possibilities available to his flesh-self than an oak could be expected to have. Instead he put himself in Bucky's hands.

As it turned out Steve was a fast learner and Bucky was more than willing to teach.

 

* * *

 

As time passed Bucky slowly stopped bleeding. Steve had helped stitch together the fractured parts of everyone Bucky had ever been; Steve had made him feel whole, something Bucky had thought impossible.

But that made sense, because Steve was impossible.

Impossible or not, he _needed_ to be with Steve. He was careful, he was always careful, but he visited Steve's lake as often as he could. 

Careful as he was, that sort of repetition was fatal to staying hidden, especially to a man actively hunting the people he was hiding from.

 

* * *

 

They came for Bucky when the sun was high overhead, the lake's crystal surface reflecting the clouds floating across the deep blue sky.

Their approach was silent; they knew their prey, they'd _created_ their prey, knew what it was capable of. They weren't here to kill it, even though it had killed so many of them since it had broken free. No, they were here to reclaim it.

This was where Bucky was safe, where he was supposed to be safe, where he could lie with his eyes closed, utterly relaxed, fingers trailing through the green grass, his naked body draped over Steve's. Trusting. Peaceful. Content.

They had guns and they had numbers. They had a red book with a black star and Bucky's eyes went wide with raw animal terror at the sight even as the rest of him dove for cover behind Steve's oak-self, dragging Steve with him. He was naked, they were both naked, and Bucky's guns were out of reach.

Bucky's terror dug into Steve's core, found the anger Bucky's story had sown, and it unfurled into full growth. He pushed Bucky down, hands gentle but implacable, as he stood. "Stay here." His voice was wrong, strange, too deep, vibrating out of his chest.

Bucky shook his head, violent rejection. "They're here for me. I won't let—"

"Trust me." Too deep, too strong, his oak-self speaking with his flesh-self's voice. Bucky's mouth snapped shut and he stared up at Steve, Steve who stared down at him as the men who'd come for Bucky cautiously moved closer. Finally, slowly, Bucky nodded.

Steve stepped out from behind his oak-self and advanced on the men who'd come for Bucky, eyes locked on the one with the book, and each step struck the ground like roots sinking into the earth.

He was oak and they couldn't hurt him.

He was oak and they'd come for Bucky.

He was oak and none of them would survive.

They cried out and pointed at him. There was laughter before they shot him. Sap oozed from the points of impact but he was _oak_ , his flesh-self was his oak-self; he couldn't be hurt by their guns.

Their laughter died as he kept coming.

The roots of an oak could split rock given time but his flesh-self was quick. Steve dashed forward and then he was among them. His fists had the weight of great branches, were driven by slow-grown anger steeped to rage, and they died. Crushed, broken, smashed. Their guns twisted to worthless scrap. Steve snatched the red book and tore it to pieces; tossed it in the lake and cracked the skull of the one who'd held it.

He was relentless, unstoppable, and everyone who'd come for Bucky was dead. Blood seeped into the ground, rich and nourishing, and he could feel the grass, the scrubby dandelions, singing their gratitude.

Bucky was approaching. Steve let his oak-self slip away before he turned to face him. Bucky wasn't looking at him. Bucky's eyes were on the bodies behind him.

Steve watched him, uncertain, because he didn't know what would happen now.

"There's words," Bucky stopped, licked his lips, started again, still staring at the bodies, "there's words in my head, in the book. All they have to do is say the words and I'm not me anymore." Bucky's eyes were harsh winter with no hope of spring and his metal hand creaked as he clenched it into a fist. "They say the words and I belong to them. They say the words and I kill for them. I always knew. I always knew if they ever found me, if they ever had the book, it'd come down to dying to stay free." His eyes snapped to Steve and winter faded into summer, bright and warm and _glowing_. Steve suddenly couldn't breathe. "Except you were here. You kept me free." Bucky walked straight into him, hit him hard, and held him tightly. "I love you."

Steve held him close and rested his cheek against Bucky's hair. "I need you to be safe and all I want is your happiness and I'd give you my sunlight and my water and my space to grow towards the sky. I think that's the same as I love you."

"I think so, too." Bucky pressed his face into Steve's shoulder, then gave a short burble of laughter. "I guess you're not my gentle woodland nymph after all."

"No, Bucky. Always for you. I'm always gentle for you." He leaned back and cupped Bucky's cheek, then pulled away, grimacing at the smears of red he'd left on Bucky's skin.

Bucky blinked at Steve's grimace, then realised what had happened. "Come on." He took Steve's hand, ignoring the blood, and led him into the lake to wash them both clean. They stood in the water, holding each other, and then Bucky murmured, "I need to go."

Steve didn't reply, but he followed Bucky from the lake and held out his hand for the towel. Bucky was smiling a little when he gave it to Steve, and Steve took his time, lingering on the curve of Bucky's shoulder, the broad line of his back, the thick muscle of his thighs, but eventually he was dry.

Bucky dressed in silence. When he was done he clenched his fists. "I have to go. I don't," he dragged in a breath through his nose and it sounded like something dying, "I don't know when it'll be safe to come back."

Steve was cracking, his flesh-self, his oak-self, parts of him drying up, drifting away, but he touched Bucky gently. "You need to be safe."

"You can't come with me?" From the hopeless way he asked, he already knew the answer.

"I have to stay with my oak-self."

"I don't want to leave you."

"You have to stay safe."

" _I don't want to leave you_." Anguish threaded Bucky's words and Steve felt a matching anguish. He wrapped Bucky in his arms and stared at his oak-self. His towering, beautiful oak-self, at his tangled roots and spreading branches and the name carved into his bark high above the ground. He couldn't leave his oak-self, but there was a way...

His leaves rustled and his branches swayed, asking: _Will you pay the price?_   An oak's love was different from a human's, but it was love all the same. He _loved_ Bucky. He clutched Bucky tighter, eyes squeezed shut, and whispered, "Yes."

"Steve?"

He opened his eyes and Bucky was leaning back, staring at him. Instead of answering, Steve kissed him, just once, incredibly soft, then hesitated. His heart was pounding, a beating echo resonating from under his bark: _Can you? Will you?_ but the answer flowed from deep inside him: _Yes. For him, yes. To stay with him, yes. He's your Bucky-self._

He eased away from Bucky and slowly walked to his oak-self. He pressed his palms hard against his bark, half-slipping inside. He was oak-self and flesh-self, wrapped in gold, and he remembered, remembered the moment he'd sparked into life, blooming from a glowing heart. He raised his bark-wrapped arm, flesh-self and oak-self together, to plunge his hand into his chest, into his trunk, into both and neither. It hurt, it was agony, it _burned_ , but he dug down and found his glowing heart, wrapped his fingers around it as his oak-self trembled, shuddered, quaked, and yanked, dragging it free.

A flash of light knocked him sprawling to the ground, but Bucky was already there, calling his name. Steve sucked in a breath and looked up at Bucky, at his storm-grey eyes filled with worry and love, and touched Bucky's face as behind him the oak tree that was no longer his oak-self stood tall and strong. He was hollow inside where his oak-self had been and he waited for sorrow. For loss. It never came. The hollow was flooding with joy, with _Bucky-self_ , with love, with the knowledge that he could stay with Bucky.

Steve held out his hand and opened his fingers to offer Bucky the acorn. "For you," he said, the words brimming with hope and love. "It's my heart."

Bucky hit his knees and touched the acorn with one finger, making Steve shiver. He could feel it everywhere. "Steve?"

"It's my oak-self, the heart of my oak-self. I'm giving it to you. This," he reached out and touched the trunk of the oak tree, "isn't me anymore. It means you don't have to leave me. It means I don't have to be left. It means we can be together anywhere. Flesh-self," he touched his chest, "heart of my oak-self," he pressed the acorn into Bucky's hand, shivering again as Bucky's fingers closed around it, "and my Bucky-self," he finished, half-smiling as he rested his hand over Bucky's closed fingers.

"I'll keep it safe." It was a promise, a vow, and Steve pressed two fingers to Bucky's cheek.

"I know. I knew it would be safe with you." 

"I love you." Bucky pulled him in and held him close, turning his head to press his forehead against Steve's temple. "And I'm pretty damn sure you love me."

"I do. I love you."

"Your Bucky-self." The words were laughter-tinged wonder, threaded with love.

"My Bucky-self." Steve nuzzled him, nudging Bucky with his nose until he turned his head enough for Steve to kiss him and kiss him and keep kissing him until they were both breathless. "I don't know much about your world."

"I'll show you. I'll show you everything." He looked down at the acorn, the acorn that was Steve's _heart_ , resting in his palm. "We'll make something new together."


End file.
